Weekend Update, Leprechaun Edition

I haven’t run a 5k since 2005, when my sister and I signed up to “trot” a Race for the Cure in Portland and then on race day, about twenty minutes before we were set to briskly walk with the rest of the meanders, she asked if we could run. We have different memories of this day, but I remember knowing we would run even though we had said we were going to walk. I also remember that while she was a great cheerleader and kept pace with me when I couldn’t keep pace with her, I don’t remember 3.1 miles being longer than it was that day. I hurt, and I wasn’t confident I could finish, and afterward? I wanted to curl up in the fetal position and never talk about running again.

Yesterday morning I revisited the crazy that is signing up for a race on an early Sunday morning, with friends as (awesome! and) crazy as you are, and then freaking out for 48 hours before said race because you are extremely adept at concocting ridiculous scenarios in your head that will never actually happen. (I do this for job interviews, too. It’s the neurosis that keeps on giving!)

“But what if I can’t run like I want to; what if I have to walk the entire race? Or what if I break my leg or something, or I’m too nervous to even start the race, OR the officials think I’m not running fast enough and tell me I should have just signed up for the Shamrock Stride, and what am I doing thinking I can run 3.1 miles anyway? What if they kick me out because I’m not wearing any green? OMG, what if I’m the very last runner across the finish line?”

Yesterday morning Kali and I galloped our way from the start to the finish of the Shamrock Run, and while it quickly became very apparent I need to be fitted for running shoes that don’t make my feet ache and throb and oh hey, fall completely ASLEEP while running, I felt better than I ever have at that distance, and I knew I could finish, and finish strong. I was bummed we couldn’t find Rhi before the start (it was madness down at the waterfront), but it was hard not to grin at the sheer energy bouncing around like the runners who were gearing up to put their feet to pavement on a crisp but clear spring Sunday morning.

It seems a little nuts on paper: paying money to get up way too early on a weekend morning to join throngs of strangers to run a distance you could run without worrying about packet pick-ups, nerves, crowds, parking. But the second I was standing in Waterfront Park, freezing and bouncing and stretching, I remembered why races are exciting, why they sell out year after year. It’s the energy, electric and contagious, bouncing off every single person who made the commitment to show up and participate, radiating to the friends and family members (and complete strangers) who line the route and clap and cheer as people pass by, pushing themselves to reach a finish line that is as much mental as it is physical.

Kali was an amazing running partner, and we laughed at the ridiculously chipper race announcer and his affinity for calling everyone “Leprechauns,” and watched people running in bright green tu-tus and huge hats and even saw a guy jogging while playing a banjo.

I was nervous about the distance and about doing it sans iPod, and about the incline up Broadway around mile two that was admittedly pretty brutal, but once we rounded that corner and started the last leg of the race heading downhill, I had to fight the urge to start laughing, because I was DOING THIS and feeling awesome (despite not really being able to feel my right foot, whoops), and I had forgotten how hard you can push your body and see it respond favorably. I had forgotten how far you can go even when you think you’re not ready.

I know to anyone who runs distance regularly 3.1 miles is a walk in the park.

To this girl it was one of the best things I’ve done with my body for years. And I’m admittedly excited to do it again. You know, when my legs stop screaming obscenities at me.

Things I’m Contemplating As I Enter This, My Superhero(ine) Phase

This post inspired by my friend and Patron Saint of Divorce Redemption.

We’ve all heard about the five (or seven) stages of grief, the designated personal places you must traipse within and for yourself to be able to stand tall on the other side of whatever loss you are suffering. Stages you need to fight your way through surviving, and really processing, to be able to find yourself again.

In my head I liken the five stages of divorce to a wily → Read more...

Do A Big Sister A Favor?

Today is babycarrot sister’s 26th! Day of Cake. Being that my sister happens to be (awesome, yes! and) one of my favorite people on the planet, I think instead of being here, you should go here, and read all about what made her day great. (Seeing as how we’re all very visual learners around these parts, I will tell you that there are most definitely pictures. Of cake, even!)

You could even wish her a happy! birthday. You know, if you → Read more...

My Heart Is A Nautical-Themed Pashmina Afghan

We interrupt copious amounts of Asia recapping this broadcast for a maritime digression of sorts.

You see, I’ve been a lover of the ocean, and of all things aquatic and nautical-inspired, ever since I can remember.

My love for sea-faring-everything might very well have been fostered during the myriad spring breaks spent exploring quaint coastal communities in and around Port Ludlow, Washington. Some of my fondest childhood memories spring forth from days spent poking my curious face into every trinket shop in → Read more...

Paint By Numbers

Or, My Asian Adventure, Numerically Speaking.

1: Raw Ginseng root eaten after being offered by a kindly man with wrinkles showcasing his eyes at the Yangyang market. Also the number of photos I was asked to be in with total strangers (at the Forbidden City in Beijing).

6: Times I was asked to take pictures for total strangers.

2: Cups of mineral water I drank directly from a spring in the ground (in Osaek).

3: Flights (out of 5) wherein I had two (or → Read more...